


The Brighter the Stars

by shipatfirstsight



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, post acomaf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 16:06:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10282754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipatfirstsight/pseuds/shipatfirstsight
Summary: It takes her two weeks to find them. She doesn’t even realize she’s looking for them really until a week and a half into her search. Feyre just has to know--has to know if they’re here.Or: Feyre finds Rhys' mother's and sister's wings.





	

It takes her two weeks to find them. She doesn’t even realize she’s looking for them really until a week and a half into her search. It’s a need to find them and do...do what? That’s one thing she hasn’t quite figured out yet, but still, she searches the manor for them. Feyre just has to know--has to know if they’re here.  

And now she’s found them, hanging there, pinned to the wall, slashed and ruined and _wrong_. The joints--the joints where they would have been attached to Rhys’ mother and sister--they were _hacked_ off. The cuts are jagged and harsh on those, and she wonders if...if they were alive when Tamlin’s family did that to them.

Someone’s pinned those wings to the wall with ash daggers. Not two or three, either. Each wing has at least ten daggers in it. Something hysterical bubbles in her throat at that. Rhys was wrong--Tamlin didn’t have them pinned in the study after all.

He had them pinned in his bedroom, right across from his bed. She can imagine him throwing those knives like darts at the once beautiful wings, pulling them out and throwing them back in if the holes she can she in the wall behind them are any indication. Slashing at them too. Not just with the ash blades, but with his claws, wrecking them completely.

Feyre studies the wings for a moment. She can’t move...can’t really think; she just… stares and feels nothing. There’s a dull ringing in her ears, but she has enough presence of mind to close off the bond completely. She doesn’t want Rhys to feel what’s she feeling, not yet. Doesn’t want him to panic or think she’s in danger. Somehow, she’ll have to find a way to let him know...but she doesn’t want it to be from a flash of her emotions.

It’s easy to tell which would be Rhys’ mother’s wings; they’re far, far bigger than his sister’s. From her time in the camps, she knows that smaller pair...they belonged to a child. Rhys...Rhys hadn’t told her how _young_ his sister was. She couldn’t have been more than ten when she was murdered. Murdered by the male she was pretending to love.

Bile rises in her throat. She pushes it back down; she has to...she runs to the wall, feeling and thought rushing back to her, pulling the knives out carefully, trying not to damage those wings further. Hot tears run down her cheeks, sorrow for them, for the people Rhys loved but who she will never get to meet, but she ignores those tears, doesn’t make the effort to push them away. She can’t tell if the tears are from anger or sorrow; but no, she knows it is a combination of both. When the wings are finally down, she cradles them in her arm, glamoring the wall so it will look like they’re still there. And then she winnows to her room.

Carefully, she lays the wings on her bed. Rhys’ mother’s are too big, hanging over the sides, draping on the floor, but she can’t fix them now. As it is, she barely makes it to the bathroom in time to empty her stomach into the toilet.

Strong hands pull her hair back from her face. She jumps, dreading the thought of Lucien or _Tamlin_ being there, of having to try to spin some story when all she wants to do is tear the Lord of Spring apart, until she smells… Azriel. She sags against the cool porcelain of the toilet when she’s done, and the Shadowsinger reaches over her to flush it. “What are you doing here?” she whispers.

“I came to tell you what’s going on and to see if you had any new information,” he explains, voice as soft as hers. “I was waiting for you in your room. You didn’t...you didn’t notice me when you came back.”   

“You saw them.” Not a question. He would have had to have seen them.

“Yes,” there’s a quiet rage in his voice when he answers, and she finally looks back at him, studying his face.

“You’ll bring them out of here?” She can’t stand the thought of keeping them in this house; they should be where they belong.

“Of course,” a pause, shadows whispering in his ear before he continues, voice tinged with regret. “I should go. I’ll bring them to Velaris and come back when I can to tell you what’s going on.”

“I should...I should be there. I don’t want him...I don’t want him to blame himself for them all over again,” and the tears well up again. “I can’t...I want to be there for him.”

Azriel doesn’t respond, just grips her hand in his. He raises himself up, offering a hand to pull her up. She follows him into the room, watches as he takes the wings in his arms. She can tell he’s readying to leave. Fighting back a sob, she tries to think of something to say.  

“Come on then,” he says, holding his elbow out to her. Her confusion must be written plainly on her face, because he explains. “ _Tamlin_ ,” he spits the name, “won’t be back for hours. So you can come with me and be with me when…”

 _When we give Rhys the wings of his mother and sister_. He doesn’t finish out loud, but still it hangs between them. She closes the space, gripping his arm. He winnows them to just outside the townhouse. Quickly, they dart inside, Feyre holding the door open for Azriel. 

For the first time in two weeks, the scent of Rhys hits her. They’ve barely entered before Rhys is coming down the stairs, his happiness at sensing her presence apparent, even through the confusion at her being home. And she curses herself. She should have warned him, should have given him some warning that...his slows, his face draining of color when he sees what Azriel is carrying. Rhys stops, eyes darting over those ruined wings. She sees something in his eyes break, sorrow and horror crashing over him.

And then he drops to his knees. Feyre releases Azriel’s arm, darting to her mate, opening the bond fully, so he can feel the comfort she tries to offer to him, knowing, _knowing_ , that it won’t be enough, that she won’t be enough, not for this. Her arms encircle him, and he clings to her, his tears hitting her arm. He shakes as he cries, and she holds him through it.

 _You’re enough_ , he whispers in her mind after a time, mind to mind, _of course you’re enough_ . And it’s so like him, to try and comfort _her_ when he’s… he’s reliving that day. Reliving finding his mother and sister’s heads. She can see it--his shields are down, at least to her. So she holds him tighter.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers into his ear, and then says it again, “I’m so sorry.” And she adds, because she can feel his thoughts, “It’s _not_ your fault.”

Letting out a shaky breath, Rhys pulls back to look at her; his star-flecked eyes still filled with tears. But he nods, and together they rise. _Thank you_ , he says into her mind, _for getting them out of there._ He hasn’t tried to speak out loud yet, and she wonders if he can’t speak in the traditional manner yet. Her heart breaks for him as she presses a tiny kiss to his cheek.

“I couldn’t leave them there,” she whispers, and her voice cracks a little on the words. He breathes deeply, nodding again.

She keeps her arms around his waist, as they move down the hall, together; Azriel isn’t in the foyer any more, but Rhys tracks him to the garden. Cassian’s there, standing beside Azriel. Both of them tense. Angry.  

Feyre shudders in relief when she sees that Cassian’s wings, at least, are healing. Scar tissue litters his wings, but he’ll keep them she can see.

Mor and Amren are there as well, standing to the side. And Nesta and Elain, sitting on one of the iron benches. Their faces are all drawn, tight, and Feyre knows Azriel has explained to her sisters what happened to Rhys’ family. Elain, Elain has tears running down her cheeks, steadily. And even Nesta...those are tears in Nesta’s eyes. Feyre keeps her arms around Rhys as they cross the garden, Rhys focusing single-mindedly on those wings. He shudders when they’re finally right in front of them, and she holds him a little tighter, turning her face into his chest. And together, as a family, they grieve the woman and girl who those wings belonged to.

“I have to take Feyre back,” Azriel finally says after a time, and her heart sinks...she has to go back to that house she knows, but everything in her cringes away from it. Still, she sets her jaw releasing Rhys slowly, breathing his scent in deeply as she draws away from him.

His hand under her chin stops her. Rhys stoops down, murmuring, _“Feyre_ ,” before he presses a kiss to her lips. “Thank you, High Lady.”

Feyre kisses him, soft, gentle; a goodbye, and a comfort, and a promise to come home again when this is all over. Pulling back to grip Azriel’s hand, she lets her fingertips leave his last, trying to draw out the touch because she doesn’t know when she’ll get to touch him again.

And it’s Elain who says, vengeful anger in her tone, “Give that piece of shit High Lord hell, Feyre.”


End file.
